


i'd like to go boldly (where the newly suited go)

by SoloChaos



Category: Drew Carey's Improv-A-Ganza RPF, Real Person Fiction, Whose Line Is It Anyway? RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Girlfriends/No Wives, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-28 17:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10141742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoloChaos/pseuds/SoloChaos
Summary: In which Brad wakes up with a vagina but nothing else really changes.Or something like that. Eventually.





	1. She Said She Said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat inspired by the poem “No Promissory Notes” by Ish Klein. I was trying to figure out what the poem means, (or at least what it means to me,) and I wrote this to examine some themes related to it. The fic title comes from that poem. Chapter titles are various Beatles songs that I listened to while writing this.  
> Set in the early 2000s. I was a small child in the early 2000s, so my idea of what life was like then, in terms of technology, comes from “The Drew Carey Show” and “Friends.”  
> I originally set out to write this as Brad/Greg, but Ryan kept showing up in places I didn’t mean to write him, so eventually I acquiesced and this became Brad/Ryan.  
> I’m pretty sure IRL Brad has a stepparent/stepparents and step siblings, but I don’t know if he grew up with them or not, so I just gave him married parents and a sister because hey. This is fiction.
> 
> Heads up for masturbation and frank discussions about periods in this chapter.

“I swear to god, I’m not joking,” Brad says urgently. 

“It’s three in the morning, Brad,” Ryan says tiredly. “Can’t we do this later?” He sounds like he’s about to drift back off to sleep. 

“No!” Brad yelps, and he determinedly ignores how high-pitched his yelps are now.

“Jesus, pipe down,” Ryan groans. “You’re hurting my ears.”

“Sorry,” Brad says, but he isn’t feeling particularly apologetic. “Just… listen to me, all right?” 

“Okay, okay,” Ryan says. “So, you’re saying you woke up with… boobs?” 

“And a vagina,” Brad says.

“Christ,” Ryan says. “Are you drunk?” 

“No!” Brad yelps again.

“High?”

_“No!”_

“What the hell is wrong with your voice?” Ryan complains. “It feels like you’re taking a drill to my eardrums.”

“It’s  _part of it,”_  Brad hisses. “Ryan, I’m– I’m a  _girl.”_

 

 

“Are they real?” 

Brad crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes.” 

“Can I…” Ryan holds out his hands, making a cupping motion.

“No!” Brad squeaks, jerking back. God, his voice is shrill.

“Come on,” Ryan cajoles. “Just a peek, then.” 

“Dude, that’s fucking  _weird,”_  Brad says.

“No weirder than you  _waking up_  with them,” Ryan points out. “Come on. Just so  _I_  know they’re real.” 

With a sigh, Brad lifts up his shirt and steps forward. His hesitancy isn’t because they feel like  _his,_  but because they at least seem like  _someone’s,_  and it just feels weird to let Ryan touch them.

Ryan’s hands are warm, and they’re  _big._  Bigger than Brad was expecting, at least, or maybe it’s just because Brad’s smaller. He’s at least half a foot shorter than he used to be. At 5’10” he’s not  _that_  small, especially for a woman, but Ryan now has a good eight inches on him instead of his usual two. 

“Huh,” Ryan says after a moment. “That’s weird.” 

“You’re telling me,” Brad says. It’s beyond weird, having someone  _else_  touch the two lumps of flesh that’ve appeared on his chest.

Ryan finally drops his arms and steps back, and Brad pulls his shirt back down.

“Well, they’re nice,” Ryan offers. 

“Shut up,” Brad says, burying his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you mean?” 

“What do I _mean?”_ Brad looks up at him in disbelief. “We’re taping an episode tomorrow,” he checks the clock, “today, rather, and I have a brand new body! _Someone’s_ gonna notice that I’m half a foot shorter, and you know.” He slaps his chest. “Significantly more… _curvy.”_

“So they’ll just think you got a sex change,” Ryan says casually. “And… shrunk.” 

Brad stares at him. “Why the hell are you so blasé about this?” he demands. “I _woke up_ with a _vagina.”_  

“I’m not entirely convinced I’m awake,” Ryan says. _“Ow!”_ he adds when Brad slaps him. “What was that for?” 

“You’re _awake,”_ Brad growls.

“Okay, okay,” Ryan says, holding his hands up in a “don’t shoot” gesture. “Hey, maybe you should try sleeping,” he suggests. “If you woke up with them, maybe they’ll disappear by the next time you wake up.” 

“Maybe,” Brad says doubtfully.

“Well, do you have a better idea?” Ryan asks, crossing his arms.

Brad shrugs. “I mean,” he begins, but stops. Ryan does kind of have a point.

“So, go back to bed, and maybe you’ll be boob-less in the morning,” Ryan says.

Brad suddenly feels overwhelmingly tired. “Okay,” he says quietly.

Ryan looks at him for a moment before stepping forward and pulling him into a quick but fierce hug. “I’ll be here in the morning,” Ryan promises. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” 

“Okay,” Brad says again, and he goes back to bed.

He’d thought he’d have a hard time falling back asleep, too hyped up on adrenaline, but he’s passed out the moment his head hits the pillow. The next thing he knows, his eyes are fluttering open. The sun is shining through the window, and even the birds are chirping.

For a moment, he forgets everything that’s just happened. His blissful ignorance is short-lived, though, because when he moves to scratch an itch on his chest, there’s significantly more… chest. 

“Oh, fuck,” Brad says, burying his face in his pillow. 

He stays in bed, trying desperately to fall back asleep and failing miserably. About fifteen minutes later, Ryan bursts into Brad’s bedroom. 

“I could’ve been naked,” Brad mumbles. 

“Guess what?” Ryan says, ignoring him. “I was going through your closet after you fell asleep, and–” 

 _“What,”_ Brad says, sitting up.

“–all your clothes are chick clothes now,” Ryan continues. “Well, mostly. Girl-you is kind of butch. Plus you have all this makeup now, and tampons and stuff. Then I thought that maybe you just like to crossdress or something, but _all_ of the clothes are too small for you. Y’know, male-you. And I don’t know what you would do with tampons. And then I got _really_ curious, so I found your wallet, and look.” He shoves Brad’s driver’s license in his face.

Deciding to focus on one thing at a time, Brad takes his driver’s license from him and examines it.

 _Sherwood, Bradie Ramona,_ the license reads.

“‘Bradie?’” Brad says aloud.

“And look,” Ryan adds, pointing. Brad follows his finger and reads.

_Sex: F_

_“What?”_ Brad yelps.

“I don’t think it was just _you_ that changed,” Ryan says. “I think the whole _world_ changed.” 

Ryan grabs Brad’s address book and begins to make a series of phone calls. Brad sits on the floor, head between his legs as he tries to breathe. _This can’t be happening,_ he thinks dazedly. _I must be dreaming._ He’s still clutching his driver’s license in his hand, plastic edges cutting into his skin.

According to Ryan, the people who remember Brad as a man include Colin, Drew, Wayne, Greg, Brad’s mom, his sister, and his most recent ex-girlfriend. The people who remember Brad as a woman include Brad’s agent, the producers from Whose Line, his landlord, a couple of his cousins, and a girl Brad dated five years ago. Ryan’s about to call someone else when Brad regains the wherewithal to grab the phone from him.

“You’re going to alienate everyone I know,” Brad grumbles. “Did you seriously call my mom?” 

“Girl-you is a lesbian!” Ryan says excitedly. “I love lesbians!” 

“I mean, me too, but that’s not the point,” Brad says.

“I know,” Ryan says, “but I thought you might want a distraction from the point.” 

“Well, I appreciate it,” Brad says, “but I really can’t afford the time to be distracted. We have to be down at the studio in, what, two hours?” 

Ryan checks his watch. “Yeah,” he says. “Shit. We need to get going soon, y’know, with traffic.” 

“Fuck,” Brad says, dropping to the floor and lying down, flat on his back. His boobs flop around as he moves, and he stares at the ceiling, determinedly not thinking about his boobs.

He can feel Ryan looking at him.

“We need to get going soon,” Ryan says again. “You know. With traffic.” 

“Mmph,” Brad says. This can’t be happening.

 

 

The drive to the studio is long.

Ryan drives while Brad tries to figure out how to sit comfortably in his new body. The car seats are suddenly much more roomy, and the seatbelt feels awkward against his chest, especially since the bra he’s wearing pushes everything together.

He’s wearing a bra. He wouldn’t have guessed it, but wearing a bra is actually more comfortable than going without one. He’s not exactly small-chested, and it’s nice to have support.

He tries not to think about it too much. His brain pretty much shuts down every time he does, which isn’t very productive.

“So,” Ryan says about twenty minutes after they’d left. “Uh. Read any good books lately?” 

“I don’t know,” Brad says. “I mean. No.” 

“Oh,” Ryan says.

“You?” Brad asks.

“No, not really,” Ryan says.

“Great,” Brad says.

Another ten minutes, and Ryan says, “Seen any good movies?” 

“Ryan, can I _please_ just sulk in silence?” Brad begs.

“Sorry,” Ryan mumbles.

They get to the studio an hour later. They’re about fifteen minutes late, and Brad’s headed for his dressing room when Ryan grabs his elbow and pulls him towards the greenroom.

“I promised them I’d meet them here,” he says at Brad’s questioning look. 

“Them” turns out to be Wayne and Colin, who greet Brad with equally dumbfounded looks.

“Whoa,” Wayne says, jaw dropping open. “What the _fuck?”_

Colin doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are so wide his eyelids practically disappear.

“…yeah,” Brad says. He bounces on his feet, letting his new boobs jiggle. “Ta-da?”

“Can…” Wayne hasn’t taken his eyes off Brad’s chest. “Can I… see?” 

“No!” Brad says, crossing his arms over his chest. “No, you may _not_ see!” 

“You showed Ryan,” Colin says.

“You _told_ them?” Brad questions, turning to look at Ryan.

Ryan shrugs helplessly. “I had to tell _someone.”_

Brad groans.

“Hey, wait,” Wayne says, coming to stand closer to Brad. “I’m taller than you now!” He frowns, looking at Brad’s face for the first time. “It’s weird. You look like you, but you also look like a girl.” 

“Great,” Brad says, completely unenthused.

“It’s not _bad,”_ Wayne tries to console him. “You’re kind of cute, actually. Y’know, objectively.” 

 _“Great,”_ Brad says again. “I’m glad I have your approval.” 

“Aw, hey, that’s not what I meant,” Wayne says with a frown.

“I know,” Brad sighs. “I just… it’s hard, you know?” 

Wayne opens his mouth to reply, but that’s when the greenroom door opens and Drew walks in.

“Wayne, did you check with– oh my _god!”_ Drew stops, staring open-mouthed at Brad. “You weren’t joking!” he says to Ryan, not taking his eyes off Brad.

“Did you tell _everyone?”_ Brad demands, turning to Ryan. “When did you even have the time?” 

“When you were in the shower,” Ryan says. “You were in there a long time, you know.” 

At everyone’s smirks, Brad quickly yelps, “I wasn’t doing _that!”_

Drew shrugs. “I would’ve been.” 

“Me too,” Wayne adds.

“It’s _weird,”_ Brad says. “It’s my body, but I don’t know. I don’t want to mess around with someone else’s body.” 

“You just said that it’s your body,” Drew points out.

“But I’m not me,” Brad says.

“Right,” Drew says. 

There’s a long pause, and Brad shifts his weight from foot to foot before saying, “I should probably get to wardrobe and makeup.” 

“Shit, yeah,” Drew says, checking his watch. “Better hurry; Dan’ll have your head. You too, Ryan.” 

Brad’s pleased to find that wardrobe isn’t much different even though the universe has changed. They still give him the usual bowling shirt and dress pants. Makeup’s a little different; there’s just _more_ of it. They give him eyeshadow and lipstick, too. It’s subtle, but it’s still there. They fuss over his hair more, too, even though there’s barely any to fuss over.

“Oh, Brad, don’t you ever think about growing your hair out?” Alexa, one of the stylists, asks. She seems to be attempting to simultaneously fluff his hair up and smooth it down.

“I like it short,” Brad says honestly.

“What about just a little bit?” she presses. “Just enough to style it a little. Maybe even put in a bow or something!” 

Brad can’t help but wince a little at that. A _bow,_ good god. Next thing he knows he’ll be in a tutu and tights.

“No offense, Alexa,” he says, “but that sounds horrifying.” 

Alexa huffs dramatically, but it’s good-natured. Brad gets the feeling that this is a conversation they have a lot. He suddenly feels extremely uncomfortable. Girl-Brad seems to have had her own entire life, and now he’s here in _her_ world, walking around in _her_ body. 

This train of thought opens a new can of worms, and Brad quickly distracts himself by thinking about the show. He hasn’t been this nervous about a show in years. It feels like Whose Line itself has changed, and for him, it kind of has. His repertoire of go-to jokes seem to have taken on a new light in his mind. He doesn’t know if he can still make dick jokes or use toilet humor. Kathy doesn’t, not really. Karen does, sometimes, and so does Denny, but they’re not on the show anymore, and it occurs to Brad that this might be at least one of the reasons why.

Oh, fuck this. He’s not a girl; he shouldn’t worry about being ladylike. _Actual_ girls shouldn’t have to worry about it either, if he wants to get political. He’ll makes as many dick jokes as he damn well pleases. 

“Hey,” Alexa says, startling him out of his thoughts. She’s still fussing with his hair, but she looks weirdly solemn all of a sudden. “Stay away from that new assistant director, okay?” 

“Huh?” Brad says.

“Rick… Lester, I think it is,” she tells him. “Stay away from him.” 

“Why?” 

“Us girls have to look out for each other,” Alexa says simply. 

Brad’s thought process stutters a little at “us girls,” but he’s too confused to dwell on it. “What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, completely mystified.

“He’s a creep,” she tells him seriously. “Just… don’t be alone in a room with him, okay?”

Brad furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?” 

Alexa sighs, putting down her brush and grabbing a bottle of hairspray. “I mean,” she says, “he’s the kind of guy who gives off the vibe that he won’t take no for an answer.” 

Oh. “Oh,” he says. He frowns. “Wait, did he…? To you?” 

Alexa shakes her head. “No, no, it’s just a feeling I have,” she says. She pats his back. “Just keep yourself safe, okay?” 

“Okay,” Brad says. He knows she means well, but he’s feeling a little emasculated. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah,” Alexa says. “Now, close your eyes while I spray your hair.” 

Despite everything, he thinks the day’s taping goes pretty well. He keeps away from the more suggestive jokes, or tries to, at least. They have him play “If You Know What I Mean,” though, which isn’t exactly conducive to keeping it clean. But he tries to keep most of the innuendoes about Ryan and Colin rather than himself, and he mostly succeeds.

Ryan, Colin, Wayne, and Drew seem to have a much harder time than Brad himself has, actually. They’re generally pretty good at calling Brad a “she” in front of the audience, but there are more than a few slip ups. It’s probably not too noticeable to the audience, but it does get to the point that Dan actually pulls Brad aside and asks him if he’d recently come out as transgender. Dan is so weirdly earnest that Brad can’t even find it in himself to find it funny. Instead, he tells Dan no, the others are just messing around. It’ll get them in trouble, probably, but Brad figures they’ll understand.

He begs off their usual post-show outing; he’s exhausted, both mentally and physically. To his surprise, Ryan backs out, too. Ryan’s usually the one who leads their after-show barhopping, so he finds it kind of odd to see Ryan abstain.

“I drove you here,” Ryan says at Brad’s questioning look.

“I could call a cab,” Brad points out, but Ryan shakes his head.

“The fare would be ridiculous,” he says. 

That’s true, although it’s not something that would’ve stopped Ryan in the past. Brad’s too tired to question him further, though, so he just lets Ryan drive him home.

 

 

Brad has a couple weeks off filming, so he flies back to his hometown and tells his parents in person.

In person, mainly because he doubts they’d believe him otherwise. 

His mom cries a lot. She only quiets when he swears, up and down, that he didn’t get a sex change, that he really did wake up like this. His dad falls silent and doesn’t move an inch for about twenty minutes. Then he gets up and leaves the house, coming back forty-five minutes later with a stack of library books about gender identity.

“I believe you,” he says when Brad once again tells him that he’s not transsexual. “But I’m just interested now.” 

Brad shrugs and leaves his dad alone. Pops always was kind of odd.

His sister is visiting, too. They generally plan their visits home to be at the same time so they don’t have to spend more money on airfare visiting each other, too. Two bird, one stone, if you will. 

Unlike his parents, Connie takes his sudden transformation in stride. She asks him question after question about everything. She asks him for lists of all the people who can remember him as a man, as well as all the people who believe him to have been a woman all his life. She wants to know everything about what his experiences have been like since he woke up with boobs and a vagina.

“I’m a scientist,” she says when he complains about the “Twenty Questions” thing she’s got going on. “Come on. Wouldn’t you be curious? _Aren’t_ you curious?” 

“Honestly, I’ve just been taking things as they come,” Brad tells her. He has to, really. Otherwise his brain just stops working, and then he can’t do _anything._

Dinner that night is awkward, to say the least. Brad’s mom won’t look him in the eye, which forces Brad to pretend that it doesn’t feel like someone’s stabbing him whenever she avoids eye contact with him, which makes Connie angry with their mom because she’s hurting Brad, which makes Brad’s father uncomfortable since he hates confrontation, which makes Brad’s mother feel even guiltier.

Altogether, it’s not a very pleasant meal.

He turns in early. He’s sleeping in his childhood bedroom, which hasn’t changed much from when he left for college. He’d thought that maybe a couple things would be different since he turned into a girl, but it’s all the same. He wonders if that’s because his parents still remember him as a man, or if girl-Brad really is just like him.

He doesn’t want to think about girl-Brad right now. Or ever. He turns the light out and climbs into bed, burying his face in his pillow.

There’s a weird feeling in his chest, kind of like anxiety, but not quite. As he focuses, he starts to notice the feeling drift down his body, settling at his crotch. It’s almost as though he has an itch he needs to scratch, except it’s nothing like an itch and he doesn’t think scratching will help.

 _Oh,_ he realizes. He’s turned on.

Curious, he reaches down and rubs himself through the boxer shorts he’s wearing. It’s nice; not earth-shattering or anything, but nice.

He sticks his hand down his boxers and strokes what he’s assuming is his clit. It’s bizarre from this angle; he’s never had to do this by touch alone. He experiments with movement and pressure in an almost clinical manner, trying to figure out what he likes best. Figuring out what to fantasize about is a little harder: when jerking off, he’d usually imagine that someone else was jerking him off, or that someone was blowing him, or that he was fucking someone. In any case, all fantasies involved his dick, which is a little harder to think about now that he doesn’t have one anymore. He doesn’t want to think about someone else fucking _him,_ because _weird._

In the end, Brad thinks about lesbian porn. It doesn’t involve him, and they always look happier in lesbian porn than straight porn. It occurs to him that he could have actual lesbian sex now, a thought that terrifies him to an uncomfortably high degree, and he quickly turns his attention back to the situation at hand. 

He gets a finger inside himself and is kind of disappointed when it doesn’t really do anything for him.

“No wonder everyone looks happier in lesbian porn,” Brad mutters to himself. “They actually know what they’re doing.” He runs the pad of his index finger over his clit, and  _wow_ , that’s _much_ better. Mentally, he apologizes to every girl he’s ever slept with for not focusing on their clits more.

He gets to work on his clit. Like jerking off, it’s easier when his fingers are wet, and he discovers that the more turned on he gets, the wetter his vagina gets. It’s kind of like a reservoir, he decides, and immediately feels gross. He also feels kind of weird doing this in his childhood bedroom, but he supposes it makes sense. He was here when he jerked off for the first time, too. Full circle, if you will.

Even though he could feel the pressure building, it’s still something of a surprise when he comes. Orgasms in a female body aren’t as sharp, he notes, but they’re longer. And, to his delight, he’s totally willing to keep going after his first one. 

He takes a breather, though, grabbing a tissue off his nightstand and wiping his fingers. That’s when he remembers his stash of Playboy mags he kept under his mattress as a teenager, and he gets out of bed and lifts up the mattress, praying that his mother hadn’t found them once he’d moved out.

They’re still there, and Brad realizes, with some surprise, that girl-Brad really _was_ a lesbian, or at least bisexual. He knows Ryan said that one of his exes remembered him as an ex-girlfriend, not an ex-boyfriend, but it’s only now, as he holds a collection of well-loved Playboy magazines in his hands, does it register that girl-Brad was just as attracted to girls as he himself is.

He suddenly feels disgusting, and he quickly shoves the Playboy magazines back under his mattress. As much as he feels like himself– mentally, at least– he isn’t _really_ himself. This isn’t _his_ world: it’s Bradie Ramona Sherwood’s world, and he’s kicked her out of her body and her _life._

As similar as Bradie seems to be like Brad, being a woman probably shaped her life in the same sort of way being a man shaped Brad. Her experiences as a human being were probably a lot different than his have been, and her life was almost certainly more difficult considering she was a lesbian. And Brad, in her body, just got himself off while thinking about lesbians in an exclusively sexual manner.

He climbs back into bed and lies down on his back, hands at his side, and does his best to sleep.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, needing to pee, and when he sits down _(sits down!),_ he notices a couple brown spots on his underwear. For one wild moment he thinks he’d shit himself, but the brown spots are in the wrong place for that. He decides to dismiss it, but when he goes to wipe, he nearly has a heart attack when he sees bright red blood on the toilet paper.

For a second he’s utterly convinced that he’s dying, or that he at least broke himself when he was masturbating. Then his brain catches up, and he realizes that he’s having his period.

 _Oh,_ Brad thinks. _Fuck._

The bathroom he’s in doesn’t have any… supplies, and Brad realizes that his mom has probably already gone through menopause, and fuck, he doesn’t want to think about his mom right now. He sits on the toilet, at a complete loss as for what to do.

Finally, he makes a giant wad of toilet paper and shoves it in his underwear. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s better than bleeding onto his pants.

He washes his hands and waddles out of the bathroom, already blushing in anticipation. He knocks on his sister’s bedroom door, and after a couple moments, she opens it.

“Hey, sis,” Brad says. He can’t quite look Connie in the eye. “Quick question: how do you put in a tampon?” 

After the worst ten minutes of his life, Brad is tamponed up and somewhat traumatized. His sister had taken it upon herself to teach him everything she knows about the keeping and care of a vagina. And considering the fact that she’s a medical doctor, there is a _lot_ for her to teach him.

“Wipe front to back, pee after sex, and never douche,” Brad recites impatiently. “Okay. Can I _please_ go now?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Connie says. “Oh, use a pad at night, okay? If you sleep with a tampon in, your risk of bacterial infection increases.”

“Great,” Brad says, taking the box of pads and tampons she’d put together for him.

“Sleep well!” Connie calls after him as he leaves. 

“Uh huh,” he says. God, the world hates him. 

 

 

Connie’s husband, Jim, joins them a couple days later, and he seems wholly unsurprised to find Brad as a girl. Brad figures Jim must be part of the group of people who don’t remember Brad as a guy, which makes sense. They’re not particularly close, and Brad doesn’t think he’s ever had a meaningful conversation with him that wasn’t about Connie.

Brad’s just fought with his mother when Jim arrives. Or, he’s just yelled at his mother while she refused to even acknowledge him.

“Hey,” Jim greets him. Brad’s sitting on a couch, and Jim sits down next to him. “What’s going on?”

“Not much,” Brad says, continuing to pretend to read his book.

“You look a little down,” Jim observes.

Brad sighs. He may as well humor the guy for a while. “My mom and I’ve been fighting.”

“Oh,” Jim says, nodding knowingly. “Did you come out?” 

Brad blinks. “What?” 

“You’re a lesbian, right?” Jim asks. “I– I don’t mean to presume or anything, but…”

“Yeah,” Brad says, because he kind of is, technically. “I… yeah. I– I came out."

“Sorry,” Jim says. “About your mom, I mean. I’m sure she’ll come around.”

“Yeah,” Brad says. “I think she’s just… surprised.” 

Jim nods sympathetically. “My uncle’s gay, so I totally get it,” he says earnestly.

“Great,” Brad says.

“Oh, sweetheart, you made it!” Connie says as she enters the room. Brad uses Jim’s momentary distraction to smoothly shift a couple places down the couch, away from Jim.

“Good morning,” Jim says, pulling her onto his lap and kissing her. Brad wrinkles his nose and looks away. They’ve been married three years; the honeymoon should _really_ be over by now.

“Brad and I were going to get lunch soon,” Connie says once they’re done trying to suck each other’s lungs out. “Do you want to come with us?”

“No, I still have some work to catch up on,” Jim says, and Brad tries not to look too visibly pleased. It’s not that he really has anything against Jim; it’s just that he likes his sister better without him.

“Aw,” Connie says. “Well, I’ll see you later, then.” She kisses his nose playfully, and Brad nearly gags.

They go to a little hole-in-the-wall-type restaurant, one that they’d found a few years back. It’s Mexican food, cheap in price but not in quality.

“Any cramping?” Connie asks once they’re situated at a table, eating chips and salsa.

“Huh?” Brad says.

“Since you got your period,” Connie says easily.

“Oh my _god,”_ Brad says, dropping his head. “How can you even _talk_ about this?”

“It’s really not that big of a deal,” Connie says.

“Maybe not for you,” Brad says. “But you’ve had your entire life of adjusting and _living_ in a female body, whereas I was dumped into this one.” He picks at his fingernails absentmindedly. “I feel like a creepy old man spying on some chick, and I have front row seats to her body.”

Connie studies him thoughtfully. “I think,” she says, “you might want to consider the notion that this is _your_ body.” 

Brad sighs, burying his face in his hands. “But I don’t want it to be.”

“Well, tough shit,” Connie says gracefully. “Not everyone gets the body they’re supposed to have. At least you were lucky enough to have the kind you liked for the first thirty-seven years of your life.”

“Mmph,” Brad says, but he supposes she’s right. “It doesn’t feel like mine. Or…” He sighs. “It does, but it feels like it shouldn’t.” He looks up at his sister. “How do I make it stop feeling like that?”

“I don’t know,” Connie says with a shrug. “Eat good food. Exercise. Take bubble baths. Masturbate. Do what you can to make your body feel like yours. I’m not that kind of doctor, but I think that’s a good place to start.”

 

 

“How was your trip?” Ryan asks.

Brad has absolutely no idea why Ryan insists on being a perpetual presence at Brad’s apartment; Ryan has an actual _house_ that’s a lot nicer than Brad’s place. It’s been that way for years, though, and Brad doesn’t really see a point in asking.

“Weird,” he says truthfully. “My sister was, like, a little _too_ excited, and I don’t think my dad’s entirely convinced that I didn’t just get a sex change or something. The whole time I was there he was reading books like ‘The Gendered Society’ and ‘A Stranger in My Own Body: Atypical Gender Identity Development and Mental Health’ and giving photocopies of sections he thought I should read.”

“What about your mom?” Ryan says.

“Oh,” Brad says. “She… freaked out. Didn’t really talk to me or anything.”

Ryan frowns. “What?”

“Yeah.” Brad shrugs. “I don’t know. It hit her really hard.” 

“Huh,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry, man. That blows.”

“She’ll get over it,” Brad says with more confidence than he feels.

Ryan seems to sense his uneasiness and changes the subject. “Hey,” he says. “I was wondering. Do you miss your penis?”

Brad considers that thoughtfully. His knee-jerk reaction is to say, “Yes, obviously,” but he’s not sure if that’s actually true.

“Not as much as you’d might think,” he says after a couple moments of reflection. “I guess it was nice for… plumbing purposes.” 

“Huh,” Ryan says, nodding. “Like peeing standing up?” 

“Yeah,” Brad says. “Also, I got my period, and it’s even worse than girls say it is.” 

Ryan makes a face. “You got your _period?”_

“Yeah,” Brad says with a shudder. “Man. It’s the _worst.”_  

“I’ll bet,” Ryan mutters. “Jeez.”

“Yeah,” Brad says. “But it’s not all bad, I guess. Nothing sticks to your thighs when it’s hot, and it only hurts a little when you accidentally walk into a table that’s crotch-height. Oh,” he adds, “multiple orgasms.”

Ryan chokes a bit. _“What?”_ he sputters. 

“Yeah! I masturbated!” Brad says, a little more proudly than he’d intended to. “Actually, I masturbated the night before I got my period, so for a moment I thought I’d broken myself, but I guess it was just a coincidence.”

“How the fuck are you so casual about this?” Ryan says, staring at him. “You’re talking about getting your _period.”_

“It’s not _that_ big of a deal,” Brad says with a shrug. “I mean, it sucks, but after a day or two the novelty was over. Plus I was still stuck on the multiple orgasms thing for the most part. One time I had, like, _ten_ in _one hour.”_  

Ryan’s clearly still hung up on the period thing. “Did you have to use tampons? What’s that like?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Brad says. “I don’t know. Not all that different from not wearing a tampon.” He frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious!” Ryan says defensively. “It’d be weird to ask a girl these things, but since you didn’t grow up with that or anything, it’s like a novelty for you. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’m curious.”

Brad supposes that makes sense. “Oh,” he says. “Well, fire away.” 

“Well, it’s not like I have any questions off the top of my head,” Ryan says.

“Great,” Brad says. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not fucking off; you’re the one in my apartment,” Brad points out.

“Oh, right,” Ryan says. “Well, shut up, then.”

Brad rolls his eyes and plops down on the couch next to Ryan, who goes back to watching TV. He pulls a magazine out of his bag and flips it open. It’s the one he’d found at LAX, and one of the sub-headlines on the cover promised a review of the latest season of _Whose Line is it Anyway?_ Curious, he’d picked it up to read later.

The first paragraph details the history of the show and how it’s played, as well as a few details about the regular players.

_Mochrie outshone the others, as usual, with Stiles close behind. While Brady was fairly skilled in every game, his talents were highlighted in the musical-type games. Frequently featured guests included Greg Proops, Bradie Sherwood, Chip Esten, Kathy Greenwood, and Jeff Davis._

Brad skims the part where they talk about Colin, Ryan, Wayne, and Greg in depth, wanting to see what they’d written about himself.

_Like Brady, Sherwood was at her most amusing during musical-type games. Unlike Brady, Sherwood’s talent ended there._

“Hey,” Brad mutters. It’s bizarre to read about himself, and even weirder to read something where he’s referred to as a “she”. It’s weird, and now it’s unpleasant, too, considering the writer doesn’t seem to like him very much.

_Sherwood might have been funny in another context, but in the context of “Whose Line is it Anyway?”, her jokes often fell flat. She frequently pushed too far with innuendo, coming on to all her cast mates as well as most of the audience members invited to participate, regardless of gender. Sherwood’s lack of talent may have been redeemable if she had the presence to make up for it. Unfortunately for Sherwood, her tomboyish and homely appearance did little dispel the idea that she is little more than an unentertaining–_

“I’m not a slut!” Brad can’t help but protest aloud.

“Yeah, you are,” Ryan says matter-of-factly, not looking away from the TV.

“Well, yeah,” Brad says. “But I don’t appreciate the tone of this article.” He passes the magazine over to Ryan.

There’s a long pause as Ryan reads, and an even longer pause as Ryan rereads a couple times more.

“I’m gonna fucking kill them,” he finally says, standing up very calmly and leaving the room.

“Whoa,” Brad says, getting up and following him. “What?”

 _“Look!”_ Ryan snaps, handing the magazine back to him. “Look at what they wrote about you!” 

“We read the same article, right?” Brad says.

Ryan ignores him, heading over to the phone and picking up the handset. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Brad demands. “Seriously. Who’re you going to call?”

“My agent,” Ryan says, beginning to dial.

Brad quickly presses the hook. “What’s your agent going to do?”

Ryan shrugs. “Call the editors?” he says, trying to get Brad’s hand off the hook mechanism.

“And what are they going to do?” Brad questions. He sighs. “Ryan, I’m not actually a girl, remember? They’re just saying that shit because they think I am.” 

“Oh, and that makes it all right?” Ryan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I mean.” Brad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, Ryan. I’m not some damsel in distress. I don’t need you coming to my rescue every time someone’s a sexist asshole to me.” 

Ryan sighs, and his shoulders slump. “It’s not fair.” 

“I know it’s not,” Brad says. “But all this is… I don’t know, emasculating enough as it is. You rushing to defend my honor really doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Sorry,” Ryan says, a little gruff but ultimately genuine.

“I mean.” Brad sighs, moving closer to pat Ryan’s back. “I appreciate the thought.” 

Ryan’s face is inches from Brad’s, and for one incredibly bizarre moment, Brad thinks they’re going to kiss.

Then the moment passes, and Brad says, “Has anyone ever told you that your nose is really big?” 

“I’m gonna kill you,” Ryan says. He’s laughing.


	2. I Am the Walrus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brad and his mom's discussion is kind of transphobic on both sides, so just a heads up for that.

Brad’s showering one morning when he realizes just how hairy he’s gotten.

In past showers, he’d been too distracted by his new body to pay any attention to his legs or underarms. Now that the novelty has started to wear off, he’s begun to notice the hair growing on his body.

It’s something of a surprise to find out that girl-Brad shaved. From what he can tell, she seemed pretty masculine. She seemed to have enjoyed beer, football, and girls as much as the next guy, if the cans of Budweiser in the fridge, the old Chicago Bears jersey in his closet, and the Playboy magazines are anything to go by. It’s all pretty much exactly the same as Brad had it when he was a guy, even right down to the tear on the Bears jersey that he got when he was younger and fell off his bike.

He runs his hands up and down his calves and, upon deciding he’d like them better smooth, he finds a razor near his shampoo and soap bottles. With some trepidation, he lathers his right leg up with shower gel and then, very carefully, he places the razor on his ankle and slowly drags it up to his knee. When he doesn’t start bleeding, he decides that it’s okay to keep going.

He finishes his right leg and moves on to his left. He runs into a little bit of trouble with his left knee when the razor slips and he ends up accidentally nicking himself. It’s nothing too bad, though, and it only hurts a little. He finishes his shower then, deciding to shave his underarms next time.

After he’s doctored his wound and gotten dressed, he begins to idly wonder what’s happened to the stuff he really only needed as a man. He hasn’t had the time (or the energy) to poke around before. Curious now, he opens up the drawer he used to keep his shaving stuff in. To his surprise, he finds a basket of little bottles. Nail polish, he realizes. Most are more subtle colors, like pale pinks and browns and grays and a couple light blues. His eyes are instantly drawn to the deep red color of the bottle near the bottom of the basket. He picks up the bottle and examines it. _Cranberry,_ says the label.

Brad opens the bottle and paints a fingernail. The polish is darker than what he’d expect a cranberry to look like, but he likes it anyway. The paint glimmers in the light.

Painting one’s nails is harder than he’d previously thought. His hands tremble even when it doesn’t seem like they are, and the smallest of tremors can result in nail polish all over his skin.

His left hand ends up coming out all right, if a little sloppy. His right hand is another story. His fingertips– nails, skin, and all– are completely covered in polish. The dark red color gives the impression that his fingers are bleeding, which is kind of cool, but it’s really not what he was going for. He finds, though, that once the paint on his skin dries, it’s pretty easy to pick the polish off.

His curiosity is piqued, and as his nails dry, he begins to carefully go through his bathroom drawers. The drawer he keeps his extra soap and shampoo now also includes an assortment of fancy lotions that seem to be unused. Some, he notes, even include gift tags, and he realizes people probably gave these to a wholly uninterested girl-Brad as a gift. He reads one of the tags, which says, “Darling Bradie– Merry Christmas! Love, Auntie Gloria.” 

He wasn’t even aware Aunt Gloria knew of his existence. He wonders why that’s changed.

Brad’s medicine cabinet now also features a surprisingly large amount of makeup. He doesn’t even know what half of it is. He’s intrigued, though, and almost reverently, he reaches out and takes the first bottle he sees.

“‘Warm Ivory Liquid Foundation,’” he reads aloud. He opens the bottle. “Foundation’s for your face, right?” He dips the tip of his index finger into the bottle and holds it up to his face. He looks in the mirror. “About right,” he decides, and carefully rubs the liquid on his finger across his cheek. “Huh.” He’s really not sure what the point is.

He blends the foundation into his skin before wiping his finger off on a towel and putting the bottle back. He grabs a black, rectangular container and opens it.

It turns out to be eyeshadow, which is a lot more straightforward. He picks up the little brush and runs it through one of the circles of powder. It’s a silvery color, and he carefully drags the brush over his right eyelid. 

“Huh,” he says to himself, observing the contrast between the eyeshadow and his eyes. He thinks he likes it.

He finishes applying the eyeshadow and moves on to lipstick. He picks a light pink color, just a few shades darker than his actual lip color. Once he’s done, he takes a moment to just study his face in the mirror.

His lips are fuller than they used to be, Brad observes, and with the lipstick, even more so. His hairline is no longer receding, and he has less of a widow’s peak. His eyebrows are higher on his forehead, and they sort of arch now. His nose is smaller, and his face is softer and less elongated.

And with the makeup, he looks kind of… pretty.

“Huh,” he says to himself.

Brad’s uncapping a little pencil that he assumes is eyeliner when he hears the front door open and close.

“Hello?” he calls out cautiously.

“Hey, Brad,” Ryan calls back.

“We really need to talk about boundaries,” Brad mutters.

“What?” Ryan says, poking his head into the bathroom.

“Nothing,” Brad says.

“Whoa,” Ryan says. His eyes are wide as he surveys the scene, looking at the containers of eyeshadow and blush and lipstick on Brad’s bathroom counter.

Brad suddenly realizes how bizarre this is, and he’s hit with the urge to cover his face and scream, “Don’t look at me! Don’t look at me!”

“What?” he says tiredly instead.

“Huh,” Ryan says. “You know you’re not actually a chick, right?” 

“Who cares?” Brad snaps. He’s feeling defensive, but he doesn’t feel justified in being so.

Ryan holds his hands up. “Hey, whatever, man.” 

Brad’s hands are shaking too much to draw neatly, so he gives up on his eyeliner with a frustrated sigh. When he looks back up into the mirror, he sees Ryan studying him with furrowed brows. “What?” he asks warily.

“Did you paint your nails?” Ryan asks.

Brad completely forgot about that. “Shit,” he mutters.

“No, it…” Ryan flounders for a moment. “It looks nice.” 

“I was just…” Brad shrugs. “Seeing what it would look like.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I.” Ryan coughs. “Seriously. It looks good.” 

He doesn’t seem to be mocking him, so Brad just looks away and says, “Thanks.” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says.

They stand in silence for a long moment, Brad studying the polish on his nails. They’re lighter now, since they’ve dried, but they still gleam in the light.

“Uh,” Ryan says after a moment, “are we still on for dinner?” 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Brad says. “I forgot. Just give me a sec to take this off,” he adds, gesturing to his face and nails.

Ryan frowns. “What’s wrong with it?” 

Brad looks at him. “I… I’m a guy, Ryan,” he says.

“Fine, whatever,” Ryan says, shrugging.

“What?” Brad says, a little impatient.

“Nothing,” Ryan says. “Just… you look nice, is all.” 

Brad _really_ doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Well, fine,” he says, dumping the makeup back into its drawer with a little more force than necessary. “Let’s go.”

“Uh,” Ryan says, looking utterly bewildered. “You don’t have to leave it on if you don’t want to.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Brad mutters as he shuts the lights off and goes to find his wallet.

“Oh,” Ryan says. He still looks bemused, but now he looks contemplative, too. “Well, okay.”

They go to an Italian restaurant, one that they found together when Ryan moved to the area. It’s a nice place; not super fancy, but not a fast food-type place either. They’re seated by the window, and a waiter comes by with their waters, as well as a basket of rolls and a plate of olive oil.

“Shall I light a candle for you and your lady friend?” the waiter asks Ryan, pulling a lighter out of his apron and gesturing to the candle in the center of the table.

“Sure,” Ryan says, and then seems to realize what the waiter was implying about their relationship. “Wait, no. We’re just friends.” 

“Ah,” the waiter says.

There’s a moment where none of them move, until Brad says, “But, uh, you can still light the candle.” 

“Right,” the waiter says.

“That was awkward,” Brad comments once the waiter’s out of earshot.

Ryan just shrugs, flipping through his menu. “I think the gnocchi special look good. What do you think?”

“Uh,” Brad says, bewildered by the sudden change in topic. “I guess.”

“Maybe I’ll get that,” Ryan says, still looking at his menu.

“Great,” Brad says. Ryan gets the spaghetti with bolognese sauce every single time they come here; he has absolutely no idea what Ryan’s thinking.

The waiter comes back, and they order. Ryan, of course, gets his usual, and Brad can relax again. 

“So, I was thinking–” Ryan begins a couple moments into their meal, but he’s cut off when Brad’s phone rings.

“Sorry,” Brad says. “It’s probably my mom. I’ll be right back.”

Ryan shrugs amiably, and Brad gets up and goes outside. He answers his phone, and he’s right: it’s his mom.

“Brad, I was just reading about this,” his mom begins without preamble. “I looked into costs of a double mastectomy, and I think the price is doable for you.” 

Brad very nearly drops his phone. “Mom, what if someone else had answered?” he hisses. “Also, hi, Mom, I’m well, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” his mom says, ignoring his sarcasm. “Anyways, the price isn’t so bad, and if you think it’s too much, your father and I can help you out.” 

Brad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, it’s only my immediate family and my close friends who know I’m a guy. Getting my breasts removed would make things _worse,”_ he says.

“Yes, but wouldn’t it make you feel better?” she asks.

“I– I can’t imagine how surgically removing two sizable parts of my body will make me feel better,” he says.

“Wouldn’t it make you feel more like a boy?” his mom presses.

“I just– why should a flat chest make me more of a man?” Brad asks. “Isn’t it more about _self_ -validation?” His father still sends him photocopies of books he finds in the library. Lately, a lot of them have been about finding peace within himself and shit like that. It’s starting to get to him.

His mom sighs. “I guess,” she says tiredly. “But I… I just want my son back.” 

Brad sort of feels like he’s been sucker-punched. Just a little. “I’m still your son, Mom,” he says, a little weakly. “Boobs or no boobs.” He catches sight of his reflection in the glass window of the restaurant, and he winces a little at the makeup on his face.

“But just… preferably without boobs,” his mom says. “Don’t you understand?” 

“I _understand,_ Mom, but I just don’t…” Brad sighs. “I don’t know. I have to go.”

“Think about the surgery, Brad,” his mom says.

“Oh, I won’t,” he says, hanging up. He’s not sure if his mom heard him, but he doesn’t really care.

“All right?” Ryan asks when Brad sits back down.

“What?” Brad says. “Oh. Yeah.” He sighs. “My mom’s just being… I don’t know.”

“Mm,” Ryan says. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Brad says. “It does.” 

 

 

“It’s not even a _sport,”_ Brad whines.

“I _know,”_ Alexa says commiseratively as she runs a brush through his hair.

“Well, I guess it’s _technically_ a sport,” he says. “But, I mean. Barely.” 

“Barely,” Alexa agrees, putting down the brush and grabbing… another brush? “So, any plans for the weekend? Besides golfing with Ryan, I mean.” 

“Not really,” Brad says. “I mean, I’m hanging out with Jeff on Saturday, but nothing big. Ryan’ll probably show up, too.” He pauses. “You?”

“Oh, my mom’s coming to visit,” Alexa says, clearly wanting to talk about her weekend. Brad lets her, letting plans of brunch and shopping and manicures and everything wash over him. 

He regards his reflection in the mirror as she talks, nodding when it seems like he should. She’s already done his makeup, and he studies his face with interest. His makeup is subtle, but still there. He’s wearing blush; something he hadn’t even thought of when he was trying out his makeup the other day. His eyes are rimmed with eyeliner, and he likes the way they look. He’s always thought, kind of vaguely, that his eyes were just a little too small for his face. With eyeliner, though, they look perfect.

“How’s your mom?” Alexa asks, startling Brad out of his reverie. 

“What?” he says. “Oh, she’s. She’s fine?”

“She’s not sick or something, is she?” Alexa asks, looking worried by his unsure tone.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he assures her. “It’s just, uh. We’ve been… well, not fighting. Disagreeing, I guess.”

“Oh, good,” Alexa says. “I mean, not that you’ve been fighting. Just that she’s not sick.”

“Yeah, uh. I figured,” Brad says. 

Alexa starts spraying his hair with hairspray, and they lapse into silence.

“Hey,” Alexa says suddenly, voice dropping in pitch. “I know you like girls, but are you and Ryan, like. Together?” 

“I– what?” Brad says. He’s not sure which part to think about first. Is he supposed to be out as a lesbian? Does the world know? Is it common knowledge, or is it just people he knows personally?

“Together,” Alexa repeats, putting the hairspray down and running her fingers through his hair. Trying to fluff it up, or something. He can’t really tell. “Y’know, dating? Not to presume, or anything, but you guys seem, like, _really_ close, and I was just, y’know, wondering.”

“Uh, no,” Brad says, still freaking out a little about the whole lesbian thing. “I– no. We’re not.”

“Okay,” Alexa says. “I didn’t mean to pry, or anything.” She cocks her head. “He’s, uh. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he?” She giggles, sounding a little nervous.

“Yes,” Brad says, before he can really think about it. “Wait,” he says when his brain catches up. He’d just wanted to agree with her to make her less nervous. 

“Right?” she says, looking considerably less anxious. “Like, maybe a little unconventionally cute, but cute all the same. I mean,” she says, “if I wasn’t married, I’d at least think about going after him.”

Brad has no idea what to do with this information. “Oh,” is all he can think to say.

“All right, you’re all done,” Alexa says, patting his hair one last time. “Break a leg,” she says cheerfully.

“You too,” Brad says. “Wait, no. Oh, what the fuck. Bye!” he says, waving at Alexa, who waves back with an expression hovering somewhere between amused and bewildered.

 

 

Brad’s always felt a little wary around Jeff. Probably because Jeff rarely wears his emotions on his sleeves. He’s lively– effervescent, even– and never short of something to say, but even though he’s always talking, he’s still incredibly aloof. He never really _says_ anything.

“Hi!” Jeff says when Brad opens the door, bouncing in.

“Hello,” Brad says, kind of amused by Jeff’s energy. Ah, to be young again.

It was kind of a surprise to find out that Jeff remembers Brad as a man. It’s really only his immediate family and close friends who remember, (and all his close friends are his coworkers, how sad is that,) and Brad and Jeff really don’t know each other that well, despite it being Jeff’s second season on the show. Brad had invited him over to get to know him a little better before the whole magical sex change thing happened, actually.

Instantly, Brad’s hit with the memory of a time all the guys from Whose Line went out for a drink. As they got drunker they began to talk about past relationships. They’d bitched about ex-girlfriends and collectively determined that every girl they’d ever dumped was crazy, and every girl who’d dumped them was a lesbian. Jeff hadn’t contributed to the discussion, and after they’d pressed, he’d admitted that he’d never had a girlfriend.

Despite the haze that the alcohol left on the memory, Brad has a very distinct memory of shouting, “You’ve seriously _never_ had a girlfriend? What are you, gay or something?” 

And then he remembers Jeff wrapping his arms around himself and very quietly saying, “Yeah, I am.” 

There had been a long, very awkward silence. Colin had finally broken it by very sincerely thanking Jeff for trusting them enough to tell them. The rest of the guys had followed suit, patting his back and telling him that it didn’t change anything about their friendships, that they completely supported him. Brad had been last to do the same, feeling like a complete asshole all the while. 

Jeff doesn’t seem to bear him any ill-will when he greets him now, though. He hugs Brad tightly before complimenting him on his nails.

“We should do your makeup, too!” he suggests cheerfully.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Brad says. 

“Why not?” Jeff asks. 

“Well, I’m a guy,” Brad says, feeling weirdly naked under Jeff’s gaze. 

“So? Guys can wear makeup,” Jeff says, quirking an eyebrow. “Besides, Ryan said you’ve started wearing makeup since you…” He gestures to Brad’s chest. 

“That was one time,” Brad mumbles, feeling betrayed. They hadn’t discussed it, but he’d assumed there was an implicit understanding that Ryan wouldn’t tell anyone. Now that he thinks about it, though, he supposes it was unreasonable to assume Ryan had been able to read his mind.

“I’m not judging you,” Jeff says, looking vaguely amused by the very notion. 

“No, I just…” Brad doesn’t know how to explain himself, and he has the feeling Jeff really doesn’t care. 

“Now, come on,” Jeff says, grabbing Brad’s wrist.

Somehow, Brad finds himself sitting on his bedroom floor as Jeff does his makeup.

“How do you know how to do this?” Brad asks as Jeff puts away the foundation and pulls out a smaller container.

“I spent about a year in drag in my early twenties,” Jeff says. “Close your eyes,” he adds, holding up a brush. Brad complies, and Jeff begins to color in his eyelids.

“A year, huh?” Brad says.

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “Helped me get in touch with my feminine side.” 

Brad has a couple of jokes he could make, but they’re tasteless. Especially since _he’s_  now the one getting his makeup done. Instead, he just says, “Cool.” Because it kind of is.

He feels Jeff begin to drag a pencil right over his eyelashes. It tickles a little.

“Okay,” Jeff says after a moment. “Open your mouth like this,” he says, opening his mouth and curving his lips back over his teeth. Kind of like what someone would do before blowing someone else, Brad thinks to himself, before shaking himself out of it and complying. “There,” Jeff says once he’s done applying the lipstick, and Brad leans back, smacking his lips together like he’s seen women do. Jeff holds out a hand mirror, and Brad takes it.

“Whoa,” Brad says. His eyes look bigger, his cheekbones more prominent, his lips redder and fuller.

“It’s not exactly subtle,” Jeff says apologetically. “I really only know how to do drag makeup, and ‘subtle’ really isn’t in drag queen vocabulary.” 

“That’s fine,” Brad says, completely enamored with his own reflection. His lips positively _pop._

Jeff’s fiddling with the lipstick. “Do you mind if I…?” He holds up the tube.

“Go ahead,” Brad says, and out of the corner of eye, he sees Jeff happily applying the lipstick on himself. They spend a couple more minutes admiring themselves in the mirror. Brad’s lipstick match his nails perfectly, he notes with some satisfaction.

“So,” Jeff says after a moment. “Wanna get drunk and talk about boys?” he asks, in full Valley Girl falsetto.

The first thing that comes to Brad’s mind is,  _I’m not gay,_  but he finds himself laughing and saying, “Sure, buddy. I got a bottle of wine in the kitchen.” 

“Ooh, what kind?” Jeff says, hopping up. 

“Uh,” Brad says. “Red?” At Jeff’s eye roll, he says, “You’re too young to be a wine snob.” 

“You’re too old not to know what kind of wine you have,” Jeff shoots back. “It’s really not that hard.” 

As it turns out, the wine in Brad’s kitchen is a bottle of cheap merlot. Jeff winces when he reads the label.

“Well, it’s alcohol,” he says, sighing as Brad opens the bottle and pours him a glass. “God, that’s awful,” he remarks after taking a sip.

“What do you expect, for nine dollars?” Brad asks, pouring himself a glass.

 _“Nine dollars?”_ Jeff groans.

“I’m not exactly drowning in money here,” Brad says as he takes a sip of his own. The wine _is_ terrible, actually, but he pretends to savor it just to annoy Jeff. “I’m getting notes of, uh, apricot, plum, oak…” 

“Shut up and drink your paint thinner,” Jeff says, rolling his eyes.

They’ve nearly finished the bottle when Brad, who’s gotten inebriated much faster than he’d expected, says, “I think I want to fuck Ryan.” 

Jeff nearly chokes on his sip of wine. “Ryan _Stiles?”_

“Do you know another Ryan?” Brad asks.

“There was a Ryan in my eighth grade math class,” Jeff says.

Brad makes a face. “How do you even remember eighth grade?” 

“I’m ten years younger than you,” Jeff says. “Also, she kissed me once as a dare.” 

“Oh,” Brad says. “Well, yeah. Ryan Stiles.” 

“Hm,” Jeff says. “Yeah, I’d fuck him too.” 

“Yeah, but.” Brad frowns. “You’re gay.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “So?” 

“But I’m…” Brad takes another gulp of wine. _“I’m_ not.” 

“You _must_ be a _little_ gay,” Jeff says. “Straight guys don’t just talk about wanting to fuck other guys.” He pauses. “Well, I don’t think they do, anyways. I guess I wouldn’t really know.” 

Brad shrugs. “But like…” he says. “I don’t know if I’m even a _guy.”_

Jeff cocks his head. “What, just because you have a vagina now?” 

“No, it’s like…” He doesn’t know how to explain this when he’s sober; being drunk doesn’t help. “I call myself a guy, and most of the people I talk to call me a guy, usually, but I don’t mind when people call me a girl, either. I don’t even mind when I call myself a girl.” 

“Huh,” Jeff says.

They sit in silence for a moment.

“So,” Brad says. “You, uh. Seeing anyone?” 

Jeff shakes his head, pouring himself the last of the wine. “No,” he says, taking a sip. “But speaking of your… feelings, or whatever, for Ryan, I think…” He giggles a little. “Well, I like Chip.” 

 _“Chip?”_ Brad repeats incredulously. “What the hell do you see in _Chip?”_

Jeff frowns, looking personally insulted. “He’s funny and nice and smart,” he says. “And have you _seen_ his arms? God.” He sighs wistfully. “I bet he could knock me out in one punch.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“You’re drunker.” 

“Yeah,” Brad agrees. “I think it’s my metabolism. Usually I’d just be tipsy.” He frowns at Jeff. “For someone who claims to like alcohol so much, you’re kind of a lightweight.” 

“I’m a, uh,” Jeff burps, “a connoisseur. I don’t drink to get drunk.” 

“Well, la-di-da,” Brad says. He tries to pour himself some more wine, frowning when only a couple drops come out.

“Sorry,” Jeff says as he drinks the last of his wine.

Brad shrugs. “Eh. I probably shouldn’t drink any more anyways.”

“Is that your front door?” Jeff asks.

“Huh?” Brad says, and realizes that he can hear someone opening and closing his front door. “Oh, it’s probably Ryan.”

“Ryan?” Jeff calls out.

“Hello,” Ryan answers, entering the kitchen. “Hi, Jeff. Hi– oh, hey… Brad,” he says. His voice sounds weird.

“Brad!” Jeff mock-whispers. “I think he thinks you’re hot!” 

“I do not!” Ryan says quickly. “Guys, you’re drunk.” 

 _“You’re_ drunk,” Brad says, nearly falling over when he tries to stand up.

“Yeah, okay,” Ryan says, stepping forward and wrapping an arm around Brad’s waist, steadying him. Brad’s about to make a joke– or a “joke”– about Ryan feeling him up, but Jeff cuts in before he can say anything.

“Ryan,” Jeff says, giggly from the wine, “is Chip straight?” 

Ryan looks at him. “Chip Esten?” 

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “Is he straight?” 

“Uh,” Ryan says. 

“Jeff wants to fuck him,” Brad explains.

“Do not!” 

“Do too!”

“Yeah, I do,” Jeff admits with a giggle.

“I don’t know what Chip’s sexuality is,” Ryan says.

Jeff shrugs. “Good enough,” he says, standing up. He sways a little, but he doesn’t seem to be nearly as unsteady as Brad is.

“Going somewhere?” Ryan asks. He still has an arm around Brad’s waist.

“I gotta, uh,” Jeff coughs, “talk to Chip.” 

“Oh, I can’t see how that could possibly turn out well for anyone,” Ryan says. “Look, why don’t you crash on Brad’s couch, and you can talk to Chip in the morning.” 

Jeff frowns. “Why?” 

“Because it’s late, and you’re drunk,” Ryan says. “Besides, I’m not driving you, and you sure as hell aren’t driving yourself.”

Jeff seems to accept that, and as he goes to sit back down, he seems to realize something. “Hey,” he says, “why are you here?” 

“Yeah,” Brad says, suddenly realizing that it’s kind of odd for Ryan to randomly stop by, unannounced, at midnight. “Why _are_ you here?”

Ryan shrugs, finally releasing his grip on Brad’s waist. “Just thought I’d say hi,” he says.

“Huh,” Brad says. “Well, hi.”

“Hi,” Ryan says.

“I’m gonna go take a nap,” Jeff says, and stumbles over to the couch, where he promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about makeup, and I think that shows in this. I also know very little about drinking. I'm pretty sure it would take more than a little over half a bottle to get a grown man passing out drunk, but hey, creative license.


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